A Return of Dreams
by DarkieDucessa
Summary: "You never tell me anything, after all. Always left me in the dark. Hell, if you are alive, you didn't tell me you were, and God, I'm talking to an empty room, aren't I? ...So I...I might as well move on. Forget about you. Was that what you wanted? Because I...I can't. I just can't get past...past..." "Me?" (Johnlock, set between Season 2 and 3. Oneshot. Written for a contest.)


_So I actually wrote this back in March or something, but now I'm finally getting around to putting it up here~ (Originally it was on deviantART for a contest.)_

_Writing Sherlock feels slightly...awkward, for some reason. Maybe because it's a live-action TV show, not anime-esqe characters like Fire Emblem? I don't know. Still, enjoy~ :)_

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November. London, England. The skies were overcast, and no stars could be seen. A brisk wind was blowing through the streets, a sharp reminder of the season, yet the streets were as busy as ever.

In one part of London, on a road called Baker Street, a certain man was looking up at a certain flat. It was on the second floor of the building, and had once belonged to two men. One had been a particularly famous man, by the name of Sherlock Holmes. The other wasn't so famous anymore, since Holmes had fallen.

The front door was closed. The characters '221B' were placed on it—the number of the flat on the second floor.

John Watson hadn't been here in a long time, but hardly anything seemed to have changed.

He opened the door. It creaked slightly, as did the second floorboard he stepped on before he reached the stairs. One step near the landing was particularly creaky when he stepped on it, as well. They all sounded so very familiar.

The flat door was already open. Curious. He went inside.

It was amazing, how little had changed. There was dust coating everything, and a slightly more unpleasant smell than usual came from the kitchen, but other than that it all seemed the same—down to the last book tossed aside, the last paper balancing precariously on the table, the last bullet shell that had rolled under the table and had yet to be retrieved.

John bent down and picked it up now, rolling it around in his fingers. Smooth, worn, covered in dust. What gun had this come from, he wondered. Sherlock's, from shooting the wall in boredom? Or another man's, one of the various assailants that had broken in due to the consulting detective's meddling? It was impossible to tell. He dropped it again, and it rolled back under the table, back to its place.

It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Or a falling man hit concrete. John winced at the thought.

"Well, I'm here now," he said aloud, shattering the silence. His voice seemed so empty in this dark place. "You said I'd be seeing you soon. I don't know if this is what you meant..."

There was no reply. In the distance, a car shifted gears, and an engine roared. "I mean...if you are alive, that is," John added. "If you are alive, and you wanted to see me, well...I guess you'd probably pick the place yourself. Sneak up on me, because it's more 'dramatic' that way." He laughed slightly. "You always had that...that need for 'flair', didn't you? Look at how you died. Jumping off the hospital like that...you probably couldn't have been more theatric if you tried."

Someone drove by the street outside. A light wind blew through the partially cracked window, sending a few papers flying into the air.

"So coming here was probably...kind of stupid," John continued, pacing slightly. "You never tell me anything, after all. Always left me in the dark. Hell, if you are alive, you didn't tell me you were, and God, I'm talking to an empty room, aren't I!?" He abruptly kicked a stack of books and papers on the floor, scattering them in all directions. His fists clenched, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "...You—you never tell me anything, and I—I asked you. I asked you for just one thing, just one more miracle, but you couldn't even tell me if—" He choked slightly on his words, hands shaking, and he turned away.

"...So I...I might as well move on," he said quietly. "Forget about you. Was that what you wanted? Because I...I can't." He hadn't known he was holding his breath, and he let it out slowly, hands unclenching. "I just can't get past...past..."

"Me?" a voice suggested.

"Yes." It took John another second to register. He spun around to meet the eyes of a dead man.

"You're quite right, you know," Sherlock said after a moment, almost as an afterthought. "I was planning on surprising you, tomorrow evening. But then you came here."

"You," John said blankly.

Sherlock nodded. "...Hello, John."

The doctor took three steps forward and slammed his fist into Sherlock's face. The detective stumbled backwards from the force of it, stepped on a book, and tripped.

Moments before Sherlock hit the floor, though, John stepped forward again and caught his coat, roughly pulling him back upright. The detective seemed relatively unfazed, despite the fast-forming bruise on his cheek, and simply smiled.

John searched his face, took him in—the same dark hair, the same black coat with the red buttonhole, the same blue scarf, the same green eyes that shone as if he knew all your secrets—and usually, he did.

"Why now?" The words spilled unbidden from John's mouth. And after them; "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Moriarty's web was bigger and more intricate than you might imagine," Sherlock stated easily. "If you had known I was alive, you would have been in danger. I've spent the last years rooting up that web. Now I'm finished."

John stared at him for a minute. And Sherlock, unexpectedly, added; "I'm sorry, John. It was the only way to keep you safe."

"You must have told others, though," the doctor said. "What about their safety?"

"Yours was the only one that mattered," Sherlock said bluntly. "...Yours was the only one that ever mattered."

A pause, a moment of silence that seemed to last forever.

Then John said; "Oh, Sherlock, I've missed you so much," and hugged him so forcefully that Sherlock nearly fell backward again.

The detective put his arms around John, and thought his eyes might be watering up. A moment later, when John pulled back only to give Sherlock the sweetest kiss he'd ever tasted, he knew that he was only crying with joy, and he was the happiest he'd felt in the two longest years of his life.

X-X

In a town that wasn't London, in a country that was nothing like England, Sherlock Holmes woke in a dark room that wasn't anywhere near 221B Baker Street and found that there were tears in his eyes.

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_As always, reviews are very much appreciated! Thanks for reading! :)_

_~DarkieDucessa_


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